Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
HARRISON
I can’t take my eyes off the curvy temptation as she escapes my grasp.
I may have pushed her away, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want her touching me.
I didn’t want her to feel how much I want her.
I may have only gotten a brief glance at her as I left Rita’s office, but that glance was enough to distract me from getting any work done while my driver circled the block for an hour.
I don’t remember the last time anything distracted me from my work. My cock aches in my trousers as I watch the sexy sway of her hips as she practically runs away from me. She glances once over her shoulder as she enters the elevator. When she sees me staring after her, she quickly averts her gaze.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous. I love the pink blush on her cheeks. Her honeysuckle perfume lingers around me, causing my cock to throb and my mouth to water. I can only imagine how she’d taste on my tongue, and I have a damn good imagination.
I wrote her off as a love-seeking fool, but now I’m feeling like a fool. A man obsessed after just one glance. A man possessed by her after only one brief touch. I’ve never wanted someone so much, and she’s completely out of my reach. She’s looking for love, and I’m incapable of giving that to her.
Rita clears her throat, drawing my attention to where she’s standing, taking in the situation. “She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”
I swallow thickly, thinking about her soft curves against my body—a brief moment of heaven. Lovely doesn’t even describe it. I shake myself. “She’s clumsy.”
Rita snorts. “Is that all?” she asks with a knowing glint in her eye, one that spells trouble. Thank God I won’t ever see the beautiful creature again. Soon enough, she’ll be nothing but a memory, out of sight, out of mind.
Turns out, out of sight is not out of mind.
I’m in the elevator on the way to my weekly brunch date with my aunt, and all I can think about is the beauty from last week.
It’s foolish of me to hope I might bump into her again.
And I do mean bump. I’d give just about anything to feel her curves against me again, only this time, pushing her away would be impossible.
I’m distracted as I exit the elevator and walk straight into the person waiting for the elevator.
My arms instinctively wrap around the much smaller frame of the woman I nearly knocked over.
I close my eyes as I’m surrounded by the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
My eyes pop open, and I look down at my obsession.
She wriggles in my arms, pushing away from me. My cock instantly hardens. A problem I’ve had every time I’ve thought of the woman. I’ve jerked off so much to the thought of her, I’m surprised my cock isn’t raw.
The beauty in my arms gasps when she feels my erection and instantly stops her movement.
Instead, she pushes closer to me by an infinitesimal amount.
Her hands are fisted in my shirt as she looks up at me with incredulous blue eyes.
My own bore into her, searching for her thoughts.
Does she feel this connection between us?
Has she been as crazed for another moment together as I’ve been?
“Harrison, my boy, so good to see you.” My girl gasps and jumps away from me as if she’s been scalded by my touch at Rita’s voice behind her. My arms are still outstretched, missing her curvy weight against me already. “I see you’ve met Olive,” she says with a sly smile.
“Yes… we’ve become… acquainted,” I say, drawing out my words as I look down at a blushing Olive.
“Olive, this is my nephew Harrison,” Rita introduces.
Olive swallows and takes a deep breath before turning those fathomless blue eyes on me. “Nice to meet you, Harrison,” she says, her voice clear as a bell despite the shy blush on her face. I could live with nothing but the sound of my name on her lips for the rest of my days and be a happy man.
I reach out and grab the hand she hasn’t offered and pull her knuckles up to my lips. I brush them along the back of her hand, and she lets out a little moan. “It’s my pleasure, Olive.”
Rita looks back and forth between us with a self-satisfied look. I can’t help but wonder if this is a setup. Any other time and I’d be annoyed at her meddling ways, but with this beauty within arm’s reach, I can’t think of anything but getting her under me.
Olive clears her throat and pulls her hand away. Cradling it in her other hand like she is treasuring my kiss. I’m tempted to pull her against my chest and kiss those cupid’s bow lips, but I manage to control myself.
“Well, I should be going…” she says quickly. “Lots of work to do…”
She leans past me and pushes the down button.
The doors instantly slide open, and I’m silently cursing the fact that no one called the elevator.
I would do anything for another moment with her.
She scoots past me and into the elevator.
With the distance between us, she seems emboldened.
Her eyes meet mine, and in them, I see the same desire I feel reflected back at me.
Knowing she is just as affected by me is enough to satisfy me… for now.
“What was she doing here again?” I ask Rita suspiciously.
Rita waves an envelope between us. “Just dropping off her first letter for her match.”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t they normally mail their letters directly to their match?”
Rita just shrugs. “Trying something new this time. It’s a bit of a special case, wouldn’t you say?”
I growl low in my throat, wondering who Rita deems as her perfect match.
Unable to stand the thought of someone else reading Olive’s words and responding, I snatch the letter from Rita’s hand and shove it into my inner jacket pocket.
Rita gives me a shocked look but says nothing.
I have a feeling I just stepped into a trap, but I don’t give a fuck.
For the first time in years, I actually resent the thought of brunch with my aunt. I want to go back to my office and open the letter. I want to read Olive’s words and see what she’s told this so-called perfect match. There are so many things I want to do, and none of them are wholesome.
I don’t even wait until I get back to the office to rip into the letter.
I’ve barely dropped Rita off at her offices before I’m ripping into the envelope.
I’m not sure how it’s possible, but the sweet scent of Olive’s perfume lingers on the paper.
Did she spray the letter with it, or is it just my imagination?
I unfold the thick paper, expecting to see a typed letter.
I’m surprised to see elegant script written in purple ink scrawled across the page.
I take a moment to appreciate that she took the time to hand-write her letter.
Of course she did. This woman is looking for romance, and what’s more romantic than a hand-written letter delivered by a matchmaker?
Writing the letters long-hand seems like she’s letting herself be vulnerable for her match.
She’s showing how devoted to the process she is.
Guilt weighs heavily on me. Which is new for me because I don’t feel it often.
Not even when I’m taking down competitors in business do I feel it.
I’ve seen grown men cry over their lost businesses and not felt the slightest pang of guilt.
So why does taking one woman’s letter have me plagued with the emotion?
Should I give this letter back to Rita? Let her real match have his chance? Rage floods my veins at the very thought. No, Olive is mine. Somehow, someway I will make her mine.
My attention is drawn back to the elegant script, and my eyes devour her words…
Dear Match,
Rita didn’t mention your name… I feel weird writing this letter to a nameless, faceless person.
My name is Olive. I’m twenty-seven years old and work from home.
I have a cat named Jet who is a total jerk.
He’s actually my mom’s cat, but I inherited him when she passed a couple years ago. He hates me… the feeling is mutual.
Not that you care about my cat and his asshole status, I’m just nervous and ramble whenever I’m nervous. Apparently, writing what I’m guessing should amount to a love letter to a perfect stranger is nerve-inducing.
Knowing the fact that she’s writing this letter to someone she hopes to fall in love with makes that feeling of guilt rise up again for stealing it from whoever Rita was going to match her with.
Rita asked me dozens of questions over brunch about why the letter was so important to me, but I didn’t have a reasonable response.
Why did I take the letter? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that my desire and obsession took over at that moment.
The very thought of another man coveting what I want makes me feel feral with rage.
No, if anyone is going to have Olive, it’s going to be me.
Now, if only I can convince her that an arrangement without love can be fulfilling.
I can’t believe I just said that. Since I’ve restarted this letter a dozen times, I’m just going to keep going. It’s best you know now that I’m a rambler and apparently love to embarrass myself in front of perfect strangers… even by paper.
If you’re anything like me, you’re probably wondering why I chose to go with Rita Matches instead of one of the many modern approaches to dating… well, I tried and met the worst of the single guys that New York has to offer.
I growl at the thought of her dating some scumbag. Some scum bag who might’ve touched her… tasted her. I banish the thoughts before I go crazy with jealousy over some unknown man dating a woman I don’t even know.
I keep reading, wanting to soak up any tidbit I can about this woman…
Basically, my taste in internet men can’t be trusted. So here I am, letting a perfect stranger match me up with a perfect stranger. Though I suppose if we are supposed to be a perfect match, as Rita says, maybe we aren’t strangers after all?
I’m a bit of a romantic and won’t lie that I’m looking for love. I want the forever kind of love… one that I’m not sure even exists in this day and age. My parents had a love that burned so brightly it encompassed everyone around them. That’s what I want.
Hopefully, my words don’t scare you off, but I suppose if they do, then we aren’t a perfect match, are we? I have so many questions for you, but I don’t want to overwhelm you. So I’ll start small… what’s your favorite color? Mine is pink… but it changes with my mood.
Hopefully optimistic,
Olive
I reread the letter three more times, soaking in everything. She’s not only looking to fall in love; she’s looking for her one and only. Taking this letter from Rita makes me the biggest dick in all of New York, worse than any of those guys she’s dated.
That nasty feeling of guilt swamps me again. If I were a better man, I would give the letter back, but I’m not a better man.